


Little Schemer

by NorroenDyrd



Series: My Precious Heathen [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ball gown, F/M, Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Shopping, Val Royeaux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 00:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5395745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan claims that he has found a new heavy armour schematic for Cassandra - but it turns out to be nothing of the sort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Schemer

'Ah, here we are!' Lavellan announces, looking very pleased with himself, as he stops in front of a row of ornate columns that marks the entrance to the shop.

'Finally,' Cassandra grunts, flashing a dagger-like, disapproving glare first at the grinning young elf, then at each of her other two companions. 'I do not think I will ever muster enough willpower to travel with you three mages again'.

'Of course not,' says Dorian, resting his hands on his hips. 'You are so dazzled by my irresistible charm that from now on, you will only travel with me alone!'

'I think this is the point where we are supposed to leave the Seeker and the Inquisitor be,' Solas cuts in.

The Tevinter rolls up his eyes.

'No need to parade all that sombreness around; the day will not stop being hot and sunny, no matter how hard you try to infect it. But yes, let us withdraw, like the good supporting cast that we are... Mind you, I hate being the supporting cast. Better go drown my sorrows - I think there is this charming little place round the corner that serves the most delectable wine, over-priced spicy soup, and minuscule creamy cakes with a cherry on top'.

'Cakes?' Solas echoes, his face momentarily lighting up.

Dorian notices this and claps his hands together in exaggerated glee.

'Ah, yes! There it is! Blackwall told me all about your last visit to Val Royeaux! I simply must see this: the sour apostate feasting upon sweetmeats!'

'Just because you are not accustomed to seeing an elf crave something more than bread and water...' Solas begins dryly - but Dorian does not let him finish and ushers him off, out of sight, leaving Lavellan and Cassandra standing side by side on the shop's threshold.

'Arryn...' Cassandra says slowly, unable to fight back the tiny smile that never fails to flicker on her lips when she calls him by his first name (a little luxury that she affords herself only when they are alone). 'What was Dorian talking about?'

Lavellan shrugs, and then places his hand tentatively on Cassandra's waist, chuckling to himself as she makes no attempt to shake him off. By Mythal, that night in the candle-lit grove really changed everything, did it not? All those months of snarling at each other while secretly wishing to kiss, finally at an end; the truth, finally in the open... It still feels a little bit odd - but in a good, giddy sort of way. And, of course, they still snarl now and again - or rather, she snarls, out of habit rather than ire, while he playfully eggs her on, ending each bickering spar with a peace-making kiss.

'Don't mind Dorian,' he purrs, steering his companion between the columns. She is slightly taller than him, so he has to waltz on his tiptoes, while she strides forward in an abrupt, soldier-like pace; this makes the elf, in his bright blue-and-green jacket and cocked Orlesian-style hat, look a little bit like a bird doing a mating dance around his more modestly plumaged sweetheart.

'You know that once he starts speaking, nothing on earth can deprive him of the joy of listening to his own voice'.

'But still!' Cassandra persists with a frown, slowing down a little and attempting to look out into the street. 'What did he mean by supporting cast? I heard you two whispering on the way here from Skyhold! What are you up to?'

'Nothing, I swear!' Lavellan exclaims, with his free hand on his chest. 'It's just like I said: I found this complex heavy armour schematic, but I need you to have your measurements taken, to ensure a perfect fit. Of course, I could have hazarded a guess myself, judging by what I see when...'

'We could have done it at Skyhold,' Cassandra cuts in brusquely.

'Ahhh, but it is a very, very complex armour set,' Lavellan grins, gently pulling as her arm to get her to budge. 'Impossibly so! Only the finest Orlesian masters are capable of crafting the likes of it!'

'But it is not even an armour shop! If it was, the sign would have shown a figure of a warrior, or a knight's helmet, or something of that sort - instead, it's just some ridiculous swirly...'

Cassandra makes one last attempt at protesting, craning her neck to get a better look at the sign, which is creaking faintly somewhere over her head - but Lavellan quickly intervenes, disorienting her with a swift (but very loud) kiss on the lips and finally dragging her inside, where, in the semi-darkness of the shop's alcove, which provides a pleasantly cool shade after the sweltering heat of the sun-flooded city streets, the proprietor stands waiting, his body bent forward in a deep bow, almost parallel to the marble-tiled floor.

'Messere Inquisitor!' he sings, turning his face up so that the honoured guests can see his glittering, elaborately decorated mask, which covers his face up to the upper lip, with the corners of the metal outline of his mouth drawn upwards in a perpetual smile. 'Ahhh, you finally came! And I see that the ravishing lady Seeker is with you!'

Cassandra visibly squirms under the torrent of Orlesian pleasantries, while Lavellan remarks, addressing the merchant,

'Oh, she is ravishing all right. She will ravish your shop if you do not hurry up'.

'Ah, yes, yes of course!' the masked man says, hurriedly adding an extra dose of treacle to his tone. 'Will the lady kindly remove her cuirass?'

'Allow me,' Lavellan smirks, 'As Solas would say, I am becoming quite proficient at this'.

Cassandra almost chokes on the wave of crimson colour that tints the skin on her cheeks, making it seem like she is wearing a mask of her own, and raises her hand, fingers clenched, as though aiming to punch the Inquisitor, while the merchant chuckles politely in the background. But the blow never comes; though still seething, the Seeker allows the elf to help her out of her armour and onto a small footstool in the middle of the room. The Orlesian nods in satisfaction, and with a flick of his wrist, as if he is doing some sort of parlour trick with a Wicked Grace card set, suddenly produces a measuring tape, which he promptly begins to stretch against various parts of Cassandra's torso, now covered only by a light undershirt.

'I hope this does not take too long,' she mutters. 'You still have that meeting with Josephine and the count, don't you?'

'Stop worrying so much!' Lavellan soothes the Seeker, coming up a little closer and then pointedly looking away when she catches him eyeing her chest. 'We are not in the war room! Just relax, enjoy yourself - and... close your eyes'.

'What? Why?' she asks, taken aback.

Lavellan lingers a little before replying - and before he finally does, he seems to wink at the Orlesian.

'Trust me, Cassandra. Just close your eyes'.

'This is hardly the time or the place for one of your games,' she grumbles, exasperated - but obeys nonetheless.

For the next few minutes (Or maybe few hours? Few centuries? It certainly feels like it) she has to endure the ordeal of being forced to stand in a stupor, like a blind statue, while the merchant's nimble fingers measure and poke her, stick pins into her shirt, and press what feels like soft fabric against her waistline. Slowly beginning to lose her patience, and suddenly feeling just like she did when she was a little girl, suffering through one of her uncle's endless lectures about venerating the ancestors, she waits for that moment of relief, when she will feel the weight of her new armour on her shoulders, meaning that the tiresome procedure is over and she is free to go.

But the moment never comes; there is no familiar sensation of cold steel slightly stinging her skin, no creaking of leather straps as they are being adjusted to her built, no melodious jingle on chainmail rings, no burning sensation shooting through her spine, accompanying her body's adjustment to the heap of metal that has been piled over her. There is no... anything. Anything that she got so used to over the many years of training and serving, fighting and marching, always fitted into a protective set of gear that, after a while, would become her second skin. Instead, there is just rustling, and the soft clicking of scissors, and the blasted Orlesian humming to himself!.. She knew this was no armour shop - Arryn is playing some sort of prank on her... Again! And in front of that merchant, too! Grunting loudly in barely suppressed indignation, she tears her eyelids apart.

When she peers around the shop, seeking out Lavellan so she can yell at him, he first thought is that they must have been joined by another customer - a tall, short-haired woman in a voluminous gown, who is standing right in front of her. But then, it dawns on her that the merchant has shifted a full-length mirror closer to her footstool - and that the woman is her own speechless, gaping, overwhelmed self.

Maker, that elf is impossible! Instead of the 'complex armour' he promised, he has had her dress up into some sort of ludicrous Orlesian construct, dark-blue, almost black in colour, and embroidered with silver thread and pearls and Andraste knows what. The sleeves - a whole garland of puffed-up balloons, even larger than the over-the-top decorations of Josephine's blouse - begin somewhere over her elbows, leaving her shoulders completely bare; and the shape of the skirt makes her feel as though she had been stuffed inside a Chantry bell.

When the first wave of shock ebbs away, Cassandra finally catches sight of Lavellan, who is gazing at her with a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes; his mouth is half-open, and, with a small shudder, Cassandra thinks to herself that he might begin to drool at any moment.

But his reverie does not last too long - he is brought back to reality by an outraged tirade, which the Seeker blurts out without pausing for breath,

'You! You tricked me! Armour schematic my foot! Dorian put you up to this, didn't you? Mother Giselle was right: he is corrupting you with his influence! What am I supposed to do in this, act as a scarecrow? Do you plan to stick me into Redcliff fields and ward off demon birds? And I suppose this waste of fabric cost a lot of money, did it not? How much of Inquisition's resources did you waste on this? Why did you...'

She falls silent, as abruptly as she began soliloquising, and focuses on her reflection in the mirror, her hand wandering somewhere between her collar bones. This - this is happening again, she can feel it. The same thing that happened when Lavellan first offered to woo her like a true gentle-elf: first, she lashed out at him and stormed off; and then, she turned back, tiny tingling sparks coursing through her limbs and countless butterflies fluttering in her stomach, and begged for flowers and candles and poetry. And now, she is slowly coming to terms with the bizarre... creature that her reflection has turned into - and even beginning to like it.

The last time she wore some semblance of a gown was when, as sniffling, terrified little children, she and Antony were presented before King Marcus so that he could decide their fate. It was a silly pink thing, with layers upon layers of frills, and countless fake roses, which were folded out of silk ribbons, and kept coming undone, flapping about like red and white noodles, as Antony tried to hold her back while she squirmed and struggled and punched the air with her tiny fists, demanding to know what the King had done to her Mama and Papa. And when their fate was actually decided and they moved into their uncle's dreary, always stiflingly silent house, Cassandra tore off the dress and stuffed it into the chest under the bed in her room, punching it down as though it were trying to fight back. And ever since then, they wouldn't catch her dead in a ball gown (well, actually, there was no way of knowing what her uncle would have done if she stayed with him and he happened to outlive her).

And now, here she is, no longer a shrieking child, blinded by her own tears; a grown woman, hardened and strengthened by a lifetime of coming to terms with losses and searching for answers and making hard decisions. The dress she is wearing, though still uncomfortably lavish in its use of material and decoration, has sterner, simpler outlines, which seem perfectly in tune with the wearer's character - and when she looks a little closer, she lets out s small gasp of surprise, for the pattern of pearls on the skirt is shaped like the outline of a dragon, soaring through the velvety, starlit skies. That elf really thinks of everything, doesn't he?

The woman in the mirror gasps as well - and then, she smiles.

'No, that's more like it!' Lavellan nods. 'Don't you worry about the cost! That little march of Sera's landed me with a most serviceable little minion who has no choice but to fill the Inquisition's coffers to the brim with the money that would have otherwise been spent on terrorizing his neighbours. And some of that money just happened to help my favourite Seeker shine at the Empress' ball...'

'Wait, you want me to wear this to the Winter Palace? But - ' Cassandra lowers her voice, glancing suspiciously at the merchant, 'But our task there will be to catch a Tevinter assassin! There is bound to be fighting involved!'

'The skirt is detachable,' the elf responds pleasantly. 'Come now, Cassandra: I have seen the design of these uniforms we are supposed to be wearing, and found them... lacking. Varric has already accepted the tragic fact that his chest is doomed to be covered; Cole does not care about clothing at all, so long as we let him keep his hat - but you... you deserve something better than this standard outfit'.

'I will stick out among our agents like a sore thumb,' Cassandra mutters, the note of protest in her voice steadily growing weaker.

'Not stick out,' Lavellan corrects her gently, as he extends his hand to help her step off the stool. 'Stand out. You always stand out...'

Still holding her hand in his, he concludes with a short, simple elven word, which sounds like a quiet, soft, wistful sigh. Just as it always does, this word makes Cassandra's heartbeat quicken, for she knows what it means - and what it means to Lavellan to call her that.

'...Vhenan...'

The ever-smiling lip of the Orlesian's mask dims over with the mist of excited breathing, while he watches the scene that unfolds before him: the Inquisitor's companion, all dignity forgotten, wraps her arms around him and presses her lips against his, closing her eyes and raising her eyebrows, as though barely able to believe that her own elated joy is real. The elf returns her passion in kind, only tearing away for a few moments, just enough to give the merchant a wink and say,

'My good man, you'd better put up a Closed sign. I think I am about to get ravished'.


End file.
